Pythia
by Silverlight
Summary: (EriolxTomoyo) He was dark, she was light, they were pieces of a puzzle made whole. In a future seen only by one, we discover the true meaning behind "heartache" and "heart-whole."


Obligatory Author's Notes:  
Dense prose, stilted imagery, and awful grammar. Merry Christmas. XD  
Obligatory disclaimers apply.  
Official Summary: He was dark, she was light, they were pieces of a puzzle made whole. In a future seen only by one, we find the meaning behind the words "heartache" and "heart-full." (ExT)  
  
Pythia  
  
-----  
  
This is my song for you.  
  
I close my eyes and let myself be drawn into it, extending my senses in hope of seeing what shouldn't be seen.  
  
It flickers, making the shadows distort. It sears across my skin, licking gently, almost like a lover's caress, binding and strong.  
  
It warms and then slowly starts to burn. It is more than a touch, so much more. It engulfs me, into the elemental portion of itself. Into the part that can sense, that can cut and slice into my very soul.  
  
-----  
  
Fire, Earth, Air and Water.  
  
Fire to burn.  
  
Earth to ground.  
  
Air to lift.  
  
And water to see.  
  
Four elements bound together in one seamless whole.  
  
-----  
  
My lashes are burnt, and they crinkle against my withered skin. They feel like cold ice, binding and burning into me as deep as possible.  
  
I dig my heels into the earth, as deeply as is allowed. And I feel my physical self strain, straining so hard that my vision doubles. Keep me here; keep me tethered while I fly.  
  
I wing across the mind's eye, the spirit soaring so far.  
  
And I see what I was meant to see.   
  
-----  
  
I see you, looking a little older; perhaps this is five years into the future. I do not know. But your eyes are unhappy, forlorn and I ache. I want to hold you, comfort you, but by then I have given up that right. Tears spring to my visionary eyes, blinding my sight, but I shake them off. Not now. I have to know how it will be.  
  
Laughter chimes around you, it surrounds opens its arms to you in a willing embrace. You ignore it, unable to join its circle. You've muted yourself to its joy.   
  
Take it, I whisper to your future self, take it what you can. I'm not here.  
  
You can't hear me. Of course not, how can the future hear the present? It is only the present that can hear itself. I am crossing the lines already drawn by glimpsing into the future from the present; it should never be so, but it is.  
  
The room is colourful, brilliantly lit and the luminescence and cascades around you, as if there is a protective bubble surrounding you. No, that isn't right; it's absorbed into you, as if your darkness just sucks up the light that it provides, taking and never being able to return what isn't yours.   
  
-----  
  
The tree is vivid and green. It is the main source of light, of warmth of joy. The angel stands proudly on the top, beaming at all that would receive its gift. You gaze fondly at the children there, laughing and screaming with delight as they unwrap gift after gift, tearing wrapping paper and throwing it away without a second thought.  
  
-----  
  
I remember the story of the wrapping paper, so bright and shiny that it was admired by all. It was so proud, so golden that to all that saw it, it was the most beautiful piece of paper ever known to man.  
  
But it was snipped and used on a present. And this present was for a spoiled child, who tore and ripped it apart, having no eye for beauty, indifferent towards perfection. And thus, in this sad state, it was thrown away, hopelessly despairing.  
  
But within the depths of its black, plastic confinement, it sulked, it withered and it nearly died. There was no one to comment upon its greatness, no one to see how the lustre had disappeared.  
  
But when the bag was opened, a sudden gust of wind picked up the paper and it drifted away, far away from the house, from the child and from its prison. Neither object nor person was around to stop it; there was only the wind as a guide. It flew and drifted across the skies, above its prison, above the world.  
  
But all things must come back done and finally it landed. And so it came down and down and found itself in an alleyway, weathered with dirt and debris. And here in its new home, the paper shone brightly golden once more, no longer pristine and new, but belonging within its new home, accepted within the embrace of the dingy alleyway. And here it was perfect. It was loved. And it was lost.  
  
In you, my love, I can be lost, but I'm not. I struggle to find myself again, each and every time. And here, in this vision of the future, I see you, I hear you, and I cry for you. Darkness and hopelessness surrounds you, as it did for that paper in its tiny confinement.   
  
-----  
  
You stare numbly at the people whirling around you, chatting and laughing over your heads. Some are familiar faces but one is the same. I know those green eyes, that auburn hair and her laugh. I know who she is, how could I not? She's written in the stars. I helped her, I saved her, and I love her in my own fashion.   
  
But not like you. No one ever loves like you.  
  
A party, I surmise belatedly, nothing surprising. You are popular within circles, always known, but never understood.   
  
-----  
  
I understand, but I can't ever grasp you. You're like sand, golden sand, always slipping through the cracks of my fingers until all that I am left with is nothing.  
  
But I keep trying to grasp and you keep slipping...slipping...oh my dear, why must you do that to me? Why must you slip through the darkness?  
  
-----  
  
Light, so bright, so luminescent that it has no choice but to break through your darkness. Dark hair, similar thoughts, and so knowing, so understanding. Her eyes gleam invitingly, and I notice with a start that her eyes aren't just purple, violet or amethyst. They're royal purple, which is the rarest and most beautiful shade of all.  
  
Her fingers have no cracks.  
  
She says something, laughing delightedly and you answer, cracking a genuine smile of your own. She has done it effortlessly, breaking through your façade, your mask of loneliness and is already bringing you out.  
  
I have never been able to do that.  
  
She holds out a hand to you, imperious and demanding. It is pale, slender and I can't help but notice that yours are too. Two perfect pairs of hands, I've always said. Hands that provide pleasure and inflict pain.  
  
"Come," she says in that lilting voice of hers, soft and melodic. It pierces your grey fog. "Dance with me. You haven't danced all night."  
  
You lift your hand almost obediently, politely, and set it within hers. They match, perfectly. Each finger, slender in its own way, perfect and pale.  
  
She pulls you to your feet, laughing, and almost as if it were timed and cued, the music begins. Haunting, soft and slow, it is perfect for you, for her, for the both of you.  
  
It is as if everything else has faded for you; your hands fall naturally upon her waist and hers upon your shoulders. You talk, you laugh, and you're silent.   
  
I can't help but notice how perfectly she fits into you.  
  
-----  
  
The story is not finished yet.   
  
The piece of golden paper, forgotten already and lost in the alleyway, is picked up by a poor man who notices its glitter, its shine and knows that it's perfect.  
  
He goes to his home, a mere box of cardboard, and wraps it around an insignificant item, not even worthy of a name. And then, with the flourish of a magician, he presents the gift to his daughter.  
  
And the paper is not torn apart again, but rather, opened gently as if it were a precious thing not to be wasted.  
  
She too, knew the power of survival.  
  
It now gleams and glitters as if it were brand new, though it is not.  
  
-----  
  
I've always wondered how it survived.  
  
The dance ends and she thanks you gracefully before flitting away, taking the light with her. A faerylike creature; she could be Titania, queen of the faeries, but she's not; she's so much more than that.  
  
Your eyes linger upon her form as she urges and dances with others. Perfect and slim; she's not Titania. She's Psyche, she's Cassandra, and she's Iseult. Each more tragic, more light than the one before.  
  
She's perfect for you.  
  
You sit and you drink the eggnog and her essence from across the room. You watch her, your eyes trailing carelessly, your view occasionally blocked by the ignorant passer-by.  
  
-----  
  
The fire, it burns, it sears, and it hurts.  
  
But I withstand it, ignore it, and go on anyway because I have no other choice.  
  
-----  
  
She comes to you again, her eyes gleaming. One last dance, she says laughingly, one last dance for the lonely magician in the corner of the room.  
  
And so again your hands are melded together, and so again, she fits into your arms.  
  
I could almost weep for the beauty of it.  
  
It's Christmas, and I can hear her singing her song to you.  
  
-----  
  
Christmas was originally celebrated as the shortest day of the year. The darkness claimed dominance, the light fled quickly.  
  
But on this Christmas, the darkness bowed and the light conquered and owned.   
  
-----  
  
You protest, gathering your jacket, laughing true laughter, and feigning nothing to her. She sees, she knows and she understands.  
  
She walks you to the door and a distant voice rings out eerily, "Look who's under the mistletoe!"  
  
All gather around, all insist. Flushing, you share a kiss with her, nonchalant and friendly. You haven't surrendered yourself completely to her yet. It takes more than a mere party, more like a lifetime.  
  
"Come on, you can do better!" someone jeers; probably too much eggnog, but you don't seem to mind. Neither does she.  
  
So brief, so passionate, so much of you is in that kiss.   
  
You did surrender.  
  
-----  
  
My lips are burning.  
  
-----  
  
You leave, and the darkness returns.  
  
The shadows flicker and the light has faded.  
  
You're still smiling, and the black turns to grey. You gaze into the sky, past the stars into the yellow moon.  
  
You are gazing directly at me.  
  
"Thank you," you whisper and impulsively blow me a kiss. It lands on my cheek.  
  
The melody has changed.  
  
-----  
  
It is dark now, but of a different kind.  
  
The heat, the light, they are fading and withering away. I feel cool air, a freeze breeze across the cheek that burns. I can feel the ground again.  
  
There always has to be a balance.  
  
-----  
  
A hand on my shoulder, pale and smooth. It has to be yours, there isn't anyone else it could be.  
  
"Finished?" you asked gently, lips curving into that well-known smile. I smile back uncertainly, and nod.  
  
"Yes," I answer, my heart aching within me.  
  
You bend down and whisper in my ear, "Good. Let's go to sleep now, shall we? It's late." Your breath tickles and sends shivers down my spine.   
  
Suddenly and uncharacteristically, I seize your head and kiss you fiercely, passionately, knowing that this may be for the last time.  
  
I am drowning and I know that you are too.  
  
You break the kiss. My lips are seared with pain.  
  
You will find someone that you will need, want and you will drown yourself into her and never resurface.  
  
"Let's go to bed Eriol," I breathe against your face. "It's been a long night."  
  
You gaze dazedly at me before offering your hand to me. Grasping it firmly, I lift myself up; it's these little gestures that make me love you all the more.  
  
My hands are distinct from yours.  
  
I can't afford to lose myself within you; it'd be worse, it'd be the end. Forever doesn't always exist.  
  
I love you, but I don't need you.  
  
"Merry Christmas," you say suddenly, encircling me within your embrace, crushing me tightly against your bones. "It's past midnight."  
  
We are not fitted against one another; your shoulder is not at the right height for me to rest my head upon, nor can I feel your heart beating within your chest.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Eriol," I say, smiling up gently at you.  
  
-----  
  
You were dark, she was light. You will love, more deeply and fiercely than you have ever known. You will give yourself to her; I see, I know, and I hear. Oh my dear, I love you, but I can't compete with that.  
  
Nothing could. Nothing will. And I won't try; it would be futile.   
  
I was meant to see this, I was meant to know.  
  
I love you, but I don't need you.   
  
Oh my dear, my love, the song is almost over.  
  
-----  
  
Obligatory Author's Notes:  
Thanks go out to Killiko, Ilana, Tori-chan, Jae, Sumi, Belle and Serena for putting up with the pre-edited version (or bits an pieces of it).  
The paper scene was stolen from a vignette in the cartoon "Animaniacs." Yesh, I'm a freak.  
Inspired by any number of authors, mainly Tin and B.Na. You can blame them for the awfulness of this fic. Merry Christmas and this is quite possibly the only CCS Christmas fic you're ever going to get from me. Written with "Tenshi no Inori" stuck in my head off the Digimon Christmas Soundtrack. 


End file.
